Dan Schorr: News/Music Writing

Feel free to listen to and download my new composition: "Those Who Live Upon The Land Are Fools"

There have been many virtuosic achievements in studio recording in the last 50 years, and many of these have been exhaustively (I won't say 'obsessively') chronicled. I am as enamored of the studio-as-instrument as anyone, and take delight in learning rock recording trivia. I loved learning, for example, how the sword mandel, or dilruba, or whichever Indian instrument it was that George Harrison played on "Strawberry Fields Forever" would barely fit into Abbey Road Studios (or maybe it was that it took 2 or three people to carry it in). All that for probably a 30-second overdub. And I'm certain the Abbey Road engineers had to hot-wire their equipment in some ingenious way in order to record the instrument at all, etc. & etc., and that it is now all the stuff of recording legend.

I buy into this bit of recording studio legend, along with all the other ones that color the history of pop music, with untrammeled delight. Certainly, some pop music has been marvelously, ingeniously recorded over the years. And some of the overlooked examples of great rock/pop/country/soul recording would be worth looking into on their own.

But in thinking back through all the recorded music I've listened to over the years, I still feel that, outside the world of classical music, the greatest overall achievement in recording instrumental groups was made by Blue Note Records during the period from about 1955-1965 (to the jazz historian Phil Schaap: in the unlikely event you are reading this, go easy on me if I'm a year or two off on the dates).

If you're unfamiliar with Blue Note Records, they put out hundreds of milestone (no pun intended, Miles Davis fans) albums by Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Lee Morgan, Wayne Shorter, Dexter Gordon, Eric Dolphy, and other jazz greats.

I am no expert in the technical side of recording, and have not taken the trouble to read any books or articles about the way in which Blue Note artists were recorded (I'm sure some informative ones have been written). But somehow the engineers for Blue Note were able to obtain a combination of warmth, fidelity, balance, and presence that, to lesser or greater degrees, have eluded all who came before and after them. Listen to Lee Morgan's masterpiece "Sidewinder" album, to give just one example. It sounds as if it were recorded yesterday*.

While I personally am in favor of overdubbing, especially on pop and rock recordings (though I am ambivalent about many of the more recent recording innovations, such as pitch-correction software, the capability ProTools gives us of moving individual notes around with a computer mouse, the demise of recording tape in favor of just recording onto a computer hard drive), it should be noted that all the Blue Note recordings were done as full ensemble takes, without overdubbing. They would do more than one take at times, and seemingly just use the best one (on CD re-releases of the Blue Note catalogue they often include a couple of the alternate takes from the original sessions).

The intimacy of Blue Note recordings never feels forced, the presence of each individual instrument never exaggerated (listen, in contrast, to some jazz recordings of the 70's up to the present, on which the acoustic bass is so aggressively 'live' you feel the need to escape into the next room). I'm glad there is such an extensive tribute to focused understatement in recorded sound as exists in the Blue Note catalogue.

*in the sense that the recording still sounds fresh and vivid. However, it now occurs to me that if it had literally been recorded 'yesterday' (that is, on November 19th, 2007), even with the same musicians performing the exact same compositions, I would predict the recording would be lacking in the warmth and vivacity of the original, because of 'advances' in recording practices and technology.

I feel uneasy bringing up the topic of social class at all. To assign anyone to a particular class seems so alien to our time, to our unspoken aspirations to liberated classlessness. It might be seen as reductionist to try to describe the attributes of social classes -- to say that a person is from a certain class (in our country at least) is to do violence to that person's individuality, even to deny his or her humanity, in the eyes of some.

Yet so long as the class we're talking about is more or less an abstraction, and if we are at a physical or historical remove from the parties being described, we have less trouble with speaking of social class as a determining force in people's lives. The "working class" of pre-1939 Europe, or the "landless peasantry" of pre-communist China, colonial India, or of Central and South America in very recent or contemporary times are objects of impassioned allegiance with many people in America and in other affluent democracies. The above-named groups, to our minds, have definite characteristics; they can be thought of almost as individuals with their own personalities, thinking and acting in a certain ways which can be charted and predicted. It seems to me also that we have ascribed a great deal of virtue to the class groups mentioned above, as well as to the working classes in many other places around the world.

We read a statement such as "The urban working class in pre-Revolutionary Russia was almost as virulently anti-Semitic as the rural peasantry" (I am not actually quoting, though I could well be), and might be inclined to accept it uncritically, but if we were asked to take in the proposition that "In our times, the American working and lower-middle class is suffering from the effects of weakened family bonds, as well as from high consumer expectations frustrated by reduced spending power", we might well be offended.

Actually, I shouldn't say whether you would be offended or not. But I do know that honest discourse about social class and how it influences people's choices is very rare. I find this baffling, though not surprising in that we don't conceive of ourselves in terms of where we would be ordered in a class system -- the very notion of a class system itself probably seems arcane or irrelevant to most people.

Again, I share your distaste for even broaching the subject. But my interest in the connection between how the middle class (especially the upper-middle class) views itself and the phenomenon of family music is too great.

You may be aware that within the family music genre there is a division between the kind that is viewed as highly commercialized (The Wiggles, Disney, Barney) and another kind that has arisen at least partly in reaction to and even in protest against the first kind: 'independent' kid music: Dan Zanes, They Might Be Giants, Justin Roberts, and many others (the list is constantly lengthening); at any rate the latter category tends to be more home-grown, quirkier, less produced, etc.

The self-aware, conscientious subset of the middle class (which may be wealthier and better educated than the middle class as a whole) has embraced this latter-day flowering of independent family music. But I am struck by how sentimental so much of this independent kid music is, both musically and lyrically -- every bit as much as its 'unhip' counterpart. This is surprising, because the audience for this music is skeptical about institutions and authority figures, and is highly discriminating in how it goes about life in general -- it instinctively rejects the inauthentic or artificial in almost all arenas of life.

But in the music and lyrics of indy kid performers, maybe people are just looking for an appealing reflection of themselves: celebrations of looking for bottlecaps, your favorite childhood dog, sitting on front stoops, going to the thriftshop (this last activity is exclusively engaged in by upper-middle class, when it is done as a diversion). There are no dark corners, no misgivings, no regrets sung about in indy kid music (I am emphatically not referring to 'unhappy' childhoods, only to normal feelings experienced by children). I find this frustrating, because even placid-seeming childhoods are chock full of these things (the joyous experiences of childhood, which I would agree strongly deserve celebration in song, are, on the other hand, often written and sung about with a self-satisfaction that can be off-putting). It just doesn't ring true to me (the irony and the pop-culture throw-aways I hear in some of the music also seem somewhat glib). The indy kid music audience is very demanding about most other things in life: schools, pediatricians, food ingredients, toys, TV viewing (if that is even allowed at all). But I would have expected such people to want music that was a little more challenging (which does not necessarily mean louder or more dissonant).

One theme running through family music (this theme is certainly found in indy kid music as well) is that there may be much wrong with the world, but there is much to celebrate in ourselves. I would not go so far as to call this attitude a smug one, but I'm not sure how much the rest of the world sees things in this way. Or maybe it does, and I am wrong: some of the most prominent indy kid performers are getting mass exposure, and their popularity could prove broader and deeper than anyone would have thought. But the following is either an unscientific, unprovable generalization or a truism: children outside the warm confines of the comfortable, secure segment of the middle-class have not been much affected by indy kid music. Indy kid music (though some of it will certainly stand up to the test of time) speaks mainly to the upper middle-class world-view. And though I am uncomfortable admitting it, I find this view to be unconscionably restricted.

Recently my wife and I were purchasing Indian food at Whole Foods. I noticed the strains of "Please, Please, Please" by James brown above the hubbub. I expressed my annoyance aloud, an annoyance to which I could not give a name. My wife pointed out that the alternative could have been some kind of Muzak, and that I should appreciate the James Brown.

I agree that things could have been a lot worse. If I feel I have to object in writing to hearing James Brown at Whole Foods , or hearing Howlin' Wolf played over the speakers at Starbucks, then I know that my life may not be beset by insurmountable problems.

I can't argue that my aesthetic objections are significant enough to complain about publicly. I want to write instead about another subject -- one which I believe is legitimately raised when you hear a singer like James Brown at Whole Foods. That is, I would like to recall a time when not all music was considered equal.

In the 50 years before I was born, and up until when I was about 15 (more or less --I am about to turn 45), some kinds of pop music (in the broadest sense of the term) were considered vulgar. Shamefully for the society at large, much of that music was the music of African-Americans. When my mother (probably -- she is not absolutely certain it was him) saw Chuck Berry in Mississippi or Lousiana in the 50's, it was certainly without my grandmother's knowledge. We all are aware that 'race' music was marginalized. We are all also probably familiar with the oft-told story of how rock and roll and the folk revival changed people's attitudes towards 'vernacular' styles like gospel, blues, etc.

Of course, black music was not the only music that was scorned. The Hodges Brothers were a white string band from Bogue Chitto, MS., and played in southwest Mississippi honky-tonks in the 50's and possibly into the early 60's (they made only one record that I'm aware of). According to my uncle, many of their venues were burned down by the Ku Klux Klan. Since most of these were establishments frequented by whites only, the presumed reason for their immolation must have been the immorality to which some of the patrons became susceptible while inside. As for the music, I'm pretty sure my grandmother wouldn't have liked it any more than she would have Chuck Berry. I know for certain that she didn't like Jimmie Rodgers, for she told me as much just before I set out for Meridian, MS to visit his birthplace.

Now, at least outwardly, the American people, particularly the influential ones who are founding 'progressive' store chains like Whole Foods, who program radio, especially public radio, who write about music for a living -- but also the larger body of citizens who are drawn to progressive forms of consumption, are much more egalitarian. To suggest James Brown was not on the same order as any other composer would be considered barbaric. (I myself would never suggest this -- quite the opposite.)

So personally, I think it is wonderful that all musicians have the opportunity for acclaim. I just wonder how healthy this cultural conscientiousness of ours is for popular music as a whole. As I stroll through a Whole Foods (a not unpleasant experience, for sure), and see the profit motive suavely concealed under professions of environmentalism, of enlightened values; as I hear "Please Please Please" being played, with the probable intention of giving shoppers the feeling that their consumerism possesses some kind of 'edge', I draw back.

This may be my problem, and certainly not yours; you can call this a cynical view, if you must. You can also say it is cynical to maintain that some of the background music played in Starbucks, Barnes and Noble, etc. is infinitely more vital than the culture that has spawned these self-consciously benign chains; that there is a jarring disconnect when you hear "Beautiful Delilah" being played while people wearing handsome eyeglasses work on laptops and drink delicious (I think they truly are) caffeinated beverages.

Please don't interpret this entry as an expression of nostalgia. I am just observing that when pop music did not try to cross genres or reach unfamiliar or forbidden audiences, when the studious cultural egalitarianism of today would have been an inconceivable idea, American pop music, especially roots music, had a life force that is not present in our contemporary milieu. It is an awkward thing to acknowledge, but people who are 'apart', whose modes of expression are particular to a time and place and not representative of the general society, and who do not enjoy exposure and acclaim of the mainstream can oftentimes create the most interesting products. Taboos do not only repress.

At one time, parents merely tolerated their children's desire to play the drums. In recent years, so I've read, some parents have taken to encouraging their children take up the drums and other rock instruments, and then to form their own rock bands (again, with their parents' explicit approval).

In the Great Britain of the 1950's, from what I gather, such a notion would have been madness. But something I suspect would have been equally alien to that time and place would have been studying rock and other popular and semi-popular genres at the conservatory level (as is now commonplace). Rock musicians who came of age around 1960 would have to be self-taught, if they were to learn their instrument at all.

Rock is so much part of our cultural 'landscape' that buying our children drum kits and getting them a teacher seems perfectly normal. But 50 years ago, this would have been seen as 'daft'.

Without claiming to know a great deal about the childhood of Keith Moon, the original drummer for The Who, I am still fairly certain that he learned the first stages of his craft in a more or less unsupportive environment. His first kit was probably very cheaply crafted by today's standards, and the semi-detached house that I would wager he lived in scarcely would have room to practice. The neighbors, to say nothing of his own family, would have objected to the
" 'orrible row" he created. They also would have derisively rejected the notion that an instructor could teach someone to play the drums; paying a drum teacher would have been throwing good money after bad.

Whatever one's opinion of The Who as a group, it would be difficult to deny the utter originality of Keith Moon's drumming. No drummer I have ever heard from before, during, and certainly not after his time sounds even remotely like him. And no one has ever satisfactorily determined how he developed his style; Keith Moon himself was never much inclined to talk about his craft. He did not seem to be the kind of musical overachiever of which we have so many examples nowadays, patiently developing his or her craft over a long period, formally studying music theory and history and acquiring proficiency on other instruments, such as the piano, and venturing into other musical areas, such as composing and arranging. Not only his talent, but his ability also may well have been completely natural and untutored, developed mainly through recording and performing with his group. From what I do know of his personality, I can't imagine he set aside time to practice drums a great deal on his own -- though perhaps I am wrong on this.

He played in a way no teacher would ever sanction, and that no other group beside his own would tolerate (I have heard that his few efforts to play with other musicians were disastrous failures). He did not use the "ride" cymbal on stage that nearly all other drummers rely on to make an articulated 'ping'; he would make instead a constant crash -- imagine the sound of a wave breaking constantly -- on two or three smaller cymbals -- he never used a hi-hat on stage. And, interestingly, unlike many rock drummers of today, or of back then, his snare drum was not louder than the rest of the drums. Indeed, he rarely played straight time; he would punctuate the cymbal wash with elaborate fills that were (I can describe them no other way) created by his id -- attention-getting, to be sure, but, strangely and refreshingly, lacking the showboating quality that you often find in the playing of rock drummers.

Two Keith Moon performances that stand out for me are 1) The Who's appearance on The Shindig TV show in 1965. You can see it on YouTube, and it shows him when he played with a one bass-drum kit; and 2) The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus, where they performed "A Quick One". I would compare the drum performances to a car driving fast along a precipice, threatening to fall off but never doing so.

The Who's career spanned several musical eras, and while I prefer their music prior to "Tommy", there is one post-Tommy performance of Keith's that I feel is not only stylistically but technically inimitable. I'm referring to the song (or if you prefer, the 'track') "Bargain" from 1971's "Who's Next" LP. You may say the kind of spiritual yearning expressed in the lyrics of "Bargain" seems quaint; you can rightly say this song is if anything overplayed on "Classic Rock" radio; but if I could I would like to claim that this song contains one of the best ever studio rock drumming performances.

I never tire of experiencing the spontaneity of Keith Moon. To me, our popular musical world nowadays seems so overly considered, so thoroughly mapped out. Self-consciousness dogs and bedevils our every move; we are told there is a precedent for everything we do, and unfortunately, many of us write and play songs as if we were just a bunch of influences with a human embodiment. But Keith Moon seemed utterly indifferent to how audiences, or for that matter, other people reacted to him; he had no precedent, and was not himself the precedent for anyone else. I am envious of this quality being free that he had. Of course, it was a double-edged sword both musically and personally for him. Sometimes his playing could be so undisciplined that the musicality he usually displayed could suffer -- he could cross the fine line between wildness and sloppiness. But I've always marveled at the musical risks that seemingly he had no fear of taking.

From 1968, when it was released, to around 1971, when the label that released it folded, probably no more than 50,000 record buyers purchased the album "George Jones Sings the Songs of Dallas Frazier". George Jones is one of the more amply recorded artists in American music, and over time, with changing tastes and ever more albums and singles to take up his fans' attention, this record was more or less forgotten. To my knowledge, it was never re-released on CD -- only a few of his records from 1960-1971 have been re-made into commercial CD's. From online retailers, it seems you can only get a couple dozen of his best-known songs from that period.

But insofar as it is possible to make a case in writing for this record to be one of the greatest long players ever made in the history of country music, I shall now attempt to do so.

For as much as I love country music, I would admit, if pressed, that much of it is indistinct melodically. Yet the most brilliant composers in the genre (of whom Frazier is certainly one), have been able to wrest consistently distinctive melodies from the 2-, 3-, 4-, and at most 5- or 6- chord progressions upon which the idiom is founded. I have heard novelists say they wish they could write a book of only one page. I have long felt that Frazier was able to express as much or more in an 8-line lyric than most songwriters could do in an entire album:

"Surely there's a place to rest a tortured mind/
Oh what I would give, if I could find/
A place where there's no memories of all those wasted years/
They all say I can't get there from here."

-- excerpted from "I Can't Get There From Here" (by Dallas Frazier)

Though Frazier wrote many novelty songs as well, there is a bleakness that runs through his writing that sets him apart from most songwriters. In that regard he was every bit as unsparing as Hank Williams. This bleakness, along with an melodic sensibility steeped in the Baptist Hymnal (if you like, see my entry on that influential song collection from earlier), may have consigned him to eventual obscurity, for all the success he enjoyed from 1960 through the early 70's.

But it is that very lyrical starkness, along with his particular melodic sensibility, that made him the perfect match for the voice of George Jones.

For all the superlatives that George Jones has (justly) had attached to his name over the years, one would also like to know what it is that has set him apart from other male country singers. He is able to convince listeners that any song he is performing stems from his own experience. Personally, I've always heard an unbearable resignation in his voice; his vocal persona is, at bottom, terribly rational and purposeful.

Maybe all this is why his voice is the ideal instrument for expressing remorse (a repellant sentiment if it comes with any trace of insincerity), and why he is the most qualified interpreter of Dallas Frazier, the master of the remorseful country song.

"George Jones Sings the Songs of Dallas Frazier" contains 10 brilliant songs performed by one of country music's greatest singers at the height of his powers. For those listeners (like myself) who are drawn to the 'worldview' of songwriters like Frazier, I cannot recommend this album highly enough.

(For those interested in buying hard-to-find records, the best source I've found is Old Homestead Records, in Michigan.)

Webb Pierce's 'moment' was the mid-1950's; his signature songs, "There Stands The Glass" (reputedly the first song to employ a pedal steel guitar -- or was that "Slowly", another W. Pierce standard?), "More And More", "Wondering", and others were recorded during that time.

However, some of Webb's most haunting records were made when he was past his commercial prime. During the 60's he continued making albums and mostly unsuccessful singles for Decca Records. The albums are somewhat formulaic and inconsistent. But a few of them were actually, on close listening, rather brilliant. And one in particular, "Country Music Time" (from 1965), is in the second category.

Webb's haunting tenor vibrato was the product of a different era, one with very different sensibilities from our own. I never heard Webb talk about his influences, but aside from the normal ones (Jimmy Rodgers, Hank Williams, etc.), I would not be surprised to hear that Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, and even Enrico Caruso helped form the Webb Pierce vocal style. Not that Webb was a crossover star, like another of his idols, Jim Reeves -- he was a pure hillbilly singer, and one of the things that may have contributed to his decline in popularity was a seeming inability or unwillingness to adapt to the more varied influences that began to seep into country music by about 1970.

Webb may have made as many as 20 albums in the period 1960-70. Proof that pop music history is written by the winners is found in his iTunes catalogue, which only contains about 20 of his best-known selections from the 50's. Only a couple of the 60's Decca albums were ever re-released on CD; most of these albums are only available on vinyl record, as far as I'm aware.

Back to "Country Music Time", which is, like the other albums, just a song collection. But at this time in country music, a mere song collection could be a potent thing. Side 2 begins with a song by Webb's frequent collaborators Wayne Walker and Max Powell, "Loving You Then Losing You": classic mid-tempo honky-tonk music. Later on that side, you'll find 2 great ones that Webb co-wrote: "It Took The Heart Right Out Of Me", and "Let Me Live A Little". These gems were probably composed on the back of his tour bus -- lost classics. On the other side you'll find the great Bill Anderson tune "I Don't Love You Anymore", Ernest Tubb's "Try Me One More Time", and the chestnut "LOnesome 7-7203".

Webb may not have had a style that could convert non-country fans, but as I listen to Webb's voice (I actually have the record on right now), I hear a vulnerability and a completely unpretentious conviction in the material -- here was Webb's distinctive signature. It's possible that Webb represented something in Southern culture that may have vanished by now; we're fortunate to have some trace of it left in "Country Music Time".

As we all know, in recent years a new style of family/kids' music has appeared that, though a little self-consciously in some cases, claims to be as enjoyable to adults as it is to children.

And these claims are totally merited. Parents say all the time, "I listen to the songs of [independent kid artist X] when my kids are asleep; I listen to his/her/their songs in the car on the way to work," etc.

But I am respectfully suggesting that it could be made even more enjoyable for adults than it is presently.

I don't know if you're familiar with Steve Earle. He is sometimes categorized as a country artist, which is inaccurate (though he was a 'mainstream' country artist very briefly in the 80's, and has collaborated with the Del McCoury Band on one album). He is really descended from the folk/country tradition of Townes Van Zandt. But rock also 'informs' his work, to be sure.

At any rate there is a song from one of his late-90's records called "The Unrepentant". I think it's a great song in its own right, but most remarkable for the drumming. Steve has as good a sense for a good rock tune as anybody out there today, and has worked with great rhythm sections, at least on record.

The drums on this track (I don't know who the drummer is) are smouldering, yet at the same time are played solely in service of the musicality of the song (with skill, power, but also discipline). I find this combination to be rare. Drums can end up being an afterthought, played with undue caution, or, in the case of most rock bands, are more like an extreme sport than an instrument -- and even worse, are played very predictably. Another noticable trend in contemporary drumming is the chilly competence of drummers who can play in most styles very well, but who stylistically are indistinguishable. Though it pains me to say so, one drummer is usually as good as another; drummers with really distinctive styles (Keith Moon, Ringo, Charlie Watts, etc.) are not as common as one would like.

On family records, it would be very satisfying to me if the rhythm sections would play with more energy, even aggression. In their laudable efforts to be as inclusive as possible, indy kid rockers sometimes take a generic approach, playing all styles "fairly well". There is an argument to make for doing that -- you will offend no one and engage the majority of your audience -- but it's a double-edged sword. You don't play reggae, but instead "reggae", not country but "country", and frankly, not rock but "rock."

I have difficulty because tunes like "The Unrepentant" (and another good one, "If You Fall In Love" from Earle's "El Corazon" record) for me set the standard. I should also have shared with you that the sounds that Steve Earle's electric guitar players obtain are just as brilliant as the drumming, and just as worthy of emulation by kid rockers.

I accept that a kindie rock band that played in a style (or in a spirit) similar to Steve Earle or Lucinda Williams would perhaps not engage audiences; maybe it is unfair/unreasonable to expect that anyone would or should take such an approach. I'm just putting forth the possibility.

These are just guitar/vocal demos that will sound quite different when finished. The "music" page needs a bit of cleaning up, but you can find "Super Smart Guy", "G-O-A-L-I-E", and "When Do I Get My Cell Phone?" there fairly easily.

I wonder if songwriters are as conscious of their own motives as they sometimes claim. "I wanted to write something really romantic" or "I came up with that as I was watching my newborn daughter sleeping" seem not so much overly sentimental as misleading statements. I am convinced that it is the songwriter's circumstances, combined with whatever talent the writer has to compose -- neither being under the songwriter's full control -- to which song creation is mainly due.

Historically, the main spur to write songs appears to have been pressure. Some of the greatest composers in rock have said that they wrote because they had a new album due and they needed 14 tracks. Ray Davies stated, no doubt truly, that he wrote "Tired Of Waiting" because he led his producer (Shel Talmy) and/or his label (Pye Records) to believe he had far more original material than he actually had, and had a half an hour prior to a session in which to show something to back his claim. When hit singles drove the music industry, groups had to deliver hit songs several times a year, at least. Motown, The Brill Building, and other 'hit factories' are additional proof that memorable songs are often written to order, under a deadline.

The pressure to write is obviously not the only force that brings songs into being. There are intangibles that make certain eras and locales particularly disposed to produce great songs. The 'cultural ferment' of these times and places connects somehow to the individual talents of songwriters to make a memorable body of work. Texas during the 70's, which I have referred to earlier, is such an instance. 1966-68, as it has been often observed, was a time when rock songwriters began to feel more freedom to experiment.

Songwriting partnerships are another interesting proof of the role of serendipity in songwriting. The great songwriting partnerships of popular music have been commented on plentifully -- no need to add to what has been said very well already. But when the members of a successful team work independently, it is sometimes with far less artistic (if not commercial) success. Some songwriters create better work in collaboration than they can individually -- maybe they thrive on creative tension with their partners (competition supposedly drove Lennon and McCartney), or their personalities and talents complement each other so that they are "greater than the sum of their parts."

The Baptist Hymnal (I am using as a reference the 1956 edition by Convention Press, Nashville -- "borrowed" from the Meadville, MS Baptist Church), in addition to its role in the American Protestant church service, is one of the most influential songbooks in American music. It has helped form the minds and thoughts of most, if not all, of the major country, rockabilly, early rock and roll and (obviously) both black and white gospel artists; many of its songs were undoubtedly also learned and sung by African-American folk, r and b, and blues performers who, possibly, did not use the Hymnal in their own churches.

Most of these hymns seem to have been composed during the 19th century, and practically all of them had two composers, presumably a lyricist and a music writer; I am seeing no examples of a hymn composed by one person. I am not religious personally. But in revisiting the Hymnal I don't have to look very long to find lyrics that clearly rise to the level of poetry:

"A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun; It gives a light to every age; It gives, but borrows none." ("A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page")

"Holy Ghost, with pow'r divine, Cleanse this guilty heart of mine; Long has sin, without control, Held dominion o'er my soul." ("Holy Ghost, with Light Divine")

The melodies to these hymns are dignified, at times stately. But the songs are distinctive and rippling with an emotional truth that cannot be dismissed; some of them have become part of our larger musical heritage ("Amazing Grace" is the obvious example).

It is difficult, especially nowadays, to discuss, however briefly, a songbook whose purpose was and still is first and foremost to assist in religious devotion. But as a songwriter, it is just as hard to ignore its power and influence.

Country music is not noted often enough for the great rhythm sections it has brought before the public over the decades. One could speculate about why this sin of omission has taken place, but first I'd like to pay tribute to a couple of almost unknown figures who to me represent the 'beau ideal' of rhythm section backing.

1. Willie Cantu -- Willie was the drummer in Buck Owens' Buckaroos band from '64 through '67. He was, to me, the best timekeeper in the history of country music. He rarely drew attention to himself with drum fills; his objective was always to supply rhythmic drive and lend perhaps a bit of color to the transition between song sections. Check out Buck and the Buckaroos on YouTube performing "Sam's Place" on the Buck Owens Ranch show in '67 -- you'll see Willy in top form. For better or for worse, contemporary drummers, whether in country or any other style, no longer employ the drumming techniques that Willy basically introduced with Buck Owens. He often used a tightly-closed hi hat, with a sidestick on the backbeat, with a barely audible kick drum used mainly for 'dropping bombs' (listen to another Willy tour de force: "Roll Out The Red Carpet").

2. Don Adams -- George Jones still tours with The Jones Boys, his backing band; they've had this name since about '65. Johnny Paycheck was an early Jones Boy.

For about 3 or 4 of the early years the leader of the Jones Boys was the bass player, Don Adams. Fortunately we have precisely one (I'm unaware of any others) record of Jones Boy greatness from the early years: "George Jones Live At Dancetown USA". Recorded in 1965 at a Houston honky-tonk, it was deemed unfit for commercial release at the time; fortunately it was found and released in the 80's, and may still be available today.

On this album the Jones Boys band crackles with energy, and Don Adams has a lot to do with that. Playing (presumably) a Fender Jazz bass (the Jones Boys at the time favored Fender equipment) through a single amp, Don expresses the chord progressions perfectly in four-on-the-floor basslines that never draw attention to themselves. The tone is exceedingly pleasing to the ear as well; it could not have been easy to get such a great sound in an airless, hot, and probably very humid honky-tonk on the outskirts of Houston in 1965.

To me, a great rhythm section, no matter what the style, plays sparingly, with discipline and focus as well as aggressiveness. The popular music that has its origins in the Southern United States has brought us many great artists of all styles, but just as notably wonderful rhythm sections that deserve recognition in their own right for bringing our great blues, R + B, gospel, and country and rockabilly songs to life.

It would be quite an endeavor to articulate fully what it is in Southern culture that has engendered musicians with such great rhythmic feel. The blending of cultures in the South -- African, Celtic, English, Acadian French, Hispanic, and others -- is often spoken about when trying to explain the vitality of Southern music.

The word 'primal' has sometimes been used to describe blues, early rock and roll, etc. But 'primal' is now (wrongly, I think) synonymous with 'primitive'. If we apply that term rather to connote having insight into something basic that people respond to in music, then maybe we have a non-patronizing explanation for why music from the South resonates so deeply.

Much has been written and spoken of a new sensibility in family music. Dan Zanes, Justin Roberts and many others of varying degrees of prominence have been said to have brought a more home-grown, a more authentic sensibility to the form than existed previously. There is no question that a rethinking of what family music could be was long overdue; there is equally no question that the listening public feels liberated from the monopoly that Raffi,
The Wiggles, and a few others used to hold.

I was proud to have been included in the Park Slope Parents, Volume 1 CD compilation. One of my favorite tracks was the Dan Zanes contribution, his version of a traditional tune called "The Monkey's Wedding". It didn't get talked about as much as some of the others, probably because it didn't seem necessary to direct any more attention his way. But it is elegant: tuba, accordion, and Dan's mandolin are the only instruments, and Dan's vocal is without the least trace of affectation (one of the qualities that makes him so well liked, I believe).

Being on the CD allowed me to get to know AudraRox and Astrograss, my two favorite family bands to see live. These are two great bands in their own right, without respect to genre, and they deliver their music with forthrightness and spontaneity, and never rely upon sentimentality to appeal to the sympathies of their listeners.

So, what I'm about to say should not be construed as a criticism, but rather a call to embark upon a quest. Why a quest? For all the wonderful sensibilities that independent kid musicians have brought to our form: the indy rock sounds of some of their former bands, the traditional, unadorned Americana styles they draw upon, etc., there is an area of the child's consciousness that I feel is still not being explored in family music. Childhood is a tragicomedy. That is, the events of a child's life seem so much greater to the child than to others, even to other children (of course, this is equally true for adults -- but we are occasionally able to employ mechanisms that help us regain perspective). I do see acknowledgement of this in the songs of some kids musicians, but the perspective seems more to be that of an adult retelling the child's experience, than the authentic account of a child. Additionally, the imagery of even the best children's music lyrics often is unevocative -- it is lacking in the layered absurdism that is, as it were, an essential spiritual nutrient for children.

It must seem like the height of effrontery to ask other musicians to be mindful of these considerations. Obviously, the public (parents and children) have responded so enthusiastically to what we have offered already. Still, I wish we all would look for more ways to acknowledge the elegant irony of the child's mind, to make our humor less broad, and most of all, to fulfill the deep-seated desire of all children to be fooled.

There is a radio station in the north-eastern United States. It is within the borders of a large city, a city larger, in fact, than any other American city. I feel it would be unsporting to give its call letters.

It relies largely on public support, though apparently not exclusively. But this is beside the point.

It plays OK music throughout the day. The musical approach of most of the performers this station plays is not uniformly the same, but it often seems as if it is. This radio station will play a really arresting song from time to time, but at intervals that, to this listener, are frustratingly long.

As just mentioned, the musical approach of the artists on this station offers few surprises. Listening to this station makes one nostalgic for Brian Jones and his use of exotic instruments with the Rolling Stones, or Nicky Hopkins and his harpsichord.

One would have to believe that the programmers on this station are picking out the 1 or 2 outstanding tracks from the albums they receive in the mail or from elsewhere. If this supposition is correct, one could conclude that if these are the outstanding songs, one need not delve any deeper into the rest of the body of work of the artists whose work is broadcast on this radio station.

"Alt Country" has been around as a term for about a decade, perhaps a bit more. If you don't know, it encompasses roots-rock and country-based music that consciously rejects the musical and cultural values of the mainstream country music industry. Gram Parsons is its founding father.

However, there was another alt country movement prior to this latest one, only it wasn't a movement. I'm referring to the primarily Texan singer-songwriters of the 70's: Townes Van Zandt, Butch Hancock, Joe Ely, Terry Allen, and others.

It is interesting to compare the two. Alt Country is often a self-conscious protest music: against the country hunks, the flag-waving, the overproduction of mainstream country. The Texas singer-songwriters, while having at best a troubled relationship with Nashville, acted as if Nashville did not exist. Austin and Lubbock were their geographical and cultural base, and they didn't bother about what anyone thought of them.

Another difference, in my opinion, is songwriting. Songwriting quality can not be measured, except subjectively. But when I listen to the early Ely records, to Guy Clark's classic "Old #1" record, to Townes at his prime, to Terry Allen's still hilarious satire, I find myself wishing that the alt country community would worry less about possessing musical purity, and concern itself more with writing memorable songs.

In country and bluegrass music, 'authenticity' is the ideal to which performers must aspire. Yet in striving for authenticity, many entrap themselves, or (in my opinion) lose sight of what made their forebears authentic to start with.

It is hard to define what is authentic. Authenticity is interestingly not an issue in many kinds of pop music. But in country and other 'roots' genres it is all important because they are vernacular forms, from the heart, supposedly, not the head.

The 30's, 40's, and 50's are considered the golden age of bluegrass and country, and I would mostly agree. But I would aver that very few performers from that era, whether they sound authentic to you or not, made an effort to be 'authentic'. Such a notion would have been alien in that time period. To me, if the Stanley Brothers and The Blue Sky Boys have authenticity, maybe it is because they were able to convey a core conviction about what they were delivering, musically and lyrically. I doubt it was a conscious process.

Some people seem to confuse pedigree and
geographical origin with authenticity. Don Rich, who since his death in the 70's has been technically far surpassed by the likes of Brent Mason and others, will in my opinion never be equalled musically as a country electric lead guitar player. He was from Tacoma, Washington, and was not of Scotch-Irish descent, yet his authenticity as a player would be hard to deny.

Contemporary bluegrass boasts some great players, yet to me the music often lacks chemistry. Modern bluegrass singers and songwriters are wont to treat the past with reverence; they are conscious -- overly so -- of their forebears. Contemporary bluegrass songwriting also seems derivative to me; the performances are skilled -- virtuousic -- but unspontaneous. The genre is frustratingly rule-bound. To my hearing the 'legends' of country and bluegrass performed with much more fun and abandon than is sometimes acknowledged -- this sense of fun is largely what made their music great.

One quality you used to hear in some pop singers that is less prevalent now in the musical culture is vulnerability. Two country singers whose voices could always convey a sense of being wronged (without seeming like a victim) were Lefty Frizzell and Webb Pierce. In the 50's country artists tried to present themselves as carefree, while singing songs about being careworn. Nowadays male (and most female) country singers put swagger both into their stage persona and their vocal style.

Sinatra's public persona, as is well known, was combative, dismissive, in a word: "masculine", but in his best work he conveys qualities (helplessness, pessimism) that are almost the exact opposite of that persona.

Ray Davies is known as a songwriter's songwriter, not always noted for his singing, but the pathos of many of his lyrics is offset by the conviction and focus of his vocals. "Did You See His Name" and "Big Sky" might sound ham-handed in the hands of others, but as sung by Ray they have delicacy, along with ironic humor.

...and for every rule, there is an exception: "Red Headed Stranger", Willie's 1975 album from when his French braids were already quite long enough, is one of his best albums -- one of the great all-time country long-players. However, a critical eye towards his recorded output from 1971 to the present leads me ineluctably to think that someone should have had the courage to tell the great man not to make many of his albums from the last 35 years.

It gives me no pleasure to dwell on the failings of an artist I revere, so I'd like to call attention to Willie Nelson's output from 1960 to 1970, while he still lived in Nashville. Much of his material from this period lies in relative obscurity; indeed, much of it is dreadful -- risible efforts to reshape one of the great originals of American music to fit not so much country as pop fashion. However, some of it is not just brilliant, but as importantly unlike any other body of work in country, or for that matter any genre of popular music. If you can get a hold of records like "One In A Row", "No Tomorrow In Sight", "She's Not For You", "Darkness On The Face Of The Earth", and many others from the 60's you will be exposed to a songwriting persona that is unlike any other you may have ever heard before. Deeply personal yet without any trace of self-pity or autobiographical reference (though there was plenty of material to draw upon -- for example, the time his wife found the envelope containing the hospital bill for the delivery of his mistress' child), his voice and melodic sense are stark, never over-reaching.

5th graders, or at least my fifth graders, are squarely in the age range that does not listen to family music, be it of the "kindie" variety or the more mainstream kind.

For the last 3 years I have taught music to the 5th grade. Is it harder than kindergarten? Without question. Must I be very judicious in the choice of songs I teach them? Succinctly, yes.

Today we did Civil War songs, as they are currently studying the Civil War in Social Studies. Just a few, for now: "The Battle Cry Of Freedom", "Dixie", and "The Battle Hymn Of The "Republic". We briefly discussed on whose behalf we would have been "...shouting the battle cry of freedom", as well as the meaning of "We will fill our vacant ranks with a million free men more."

After a couple of tries, I admonished them, pointing out that the North (the side that they favor, to a person), would not have won showing the amount of spirit they had demonstrated to that point in the music class. Thereafter they sung with greater vigor.

Apportioning the time of the class is the secret to working with kids approaching adolescence. Few classes will want to sing for the full 45 minutes. As a pedagogical lubricant, some kind of music game during the last 15 minutes of the class will be enlivening both for me and the kids.

...a country songwriter active mainly in the '60's named Dallas Frazier. As is sometimes the case with songwriters, his best known work is, in my opinion, not completely representative. He had a big hit early on with "Alley Oop", a country standard in "There Goes My Everything", and of course "Elvira".

He also had a huge body of lesser known songs, album tracks recorded by many artists, including George Jones, Melba Montgomery, Webb Pierce, and others. Many of these are now only found on vinyl records. Heavily influenced by the Baptist Hymnal (as were many country songwriters of that era), Frazier stuck to a tight AABA or verse-chorus verse-chorus structure, and in most cases kept his lyrics to within 15 or so lines. Check out "Beneath Still Waters" -- Emmylou Harris did a version of this song in the '70's or '80's that you can fairly easily find -- as an example of what they used to call a "heart song".

Many listeners nowadays might find Frazier's world-view quaint. He wrote for an audience that believed in the deterrent power of stigma, and for whom remorse would be (and often was) considered a good song topic.

Frazier, I don't believe, had anything to 'say'; his songs were more expressions of beliefs -- that is why I find them so arresting.